Fire-Tongue by Sax Rohmer (i wanna iguana read aloud .TXT) 📕

The contest had developed into open warfare. Harley’s accurate knowledge of London had enabled him to locate No. 236 South Lambeth Road without recourse to a guide, and now, walking on past the big gas works and the railway station, he turned under the dark arches and pressed on to where a row of unprepossessing dwellings extended in uniform ugliness from a partly demolished building to a patch of waste ground.

That the house was being watched he did not doubt. In fact, he no longer believed subterfuge to be of any avail. He was dealing with dangerously accomplished criminals. How clever they were he had yet to learn; and it was only his keen intuitive which at this juncture enabled him to score a point over his cunning opponents.

He walked quite openly up the dilapidated steps to the door of No. 236, and was about to seize the dirty iron knocker when the door opened suddenly and a girl came out. She was dressed neatly and wore a pseudo fashionable hat from which a heavy figured veil depended so as almost to hide her features. She was carrying a bulging cane grip secured by a brown leather strap.

Seeing Harley on the step, she paused for a moment, then, recovering herself:

“Ellen!” she shouted down the dim passageway revealed by the opening of the door. “Somebody to see you.”

Leaving the door open, she hurried past the visitor with averted face. It was well done, and, thus disguised by the thick veil, another man than Paul Harley might have failed to recognize one of whom he had never had more than an imperfect glimpse. But if Paul Harley’s memory did not avail him greatly, his unerring instinct never failed.

He grasped the girl’s arm. “One moment, Miss Jones,” he said, quietly, “it is you I am here to see!”

The girl turned angrily, snatching her arm from his grasp. “You’ve made a mistake, haven’t you?” she cried, furiously. “I don’t know you and I don’t want to!”

“Be good enough to step inside again. Don’t make a scene. If you behave yourself, you have nothing to fear. But I want to talk to you.”

He extended his arm to detain her. But she thrust it aside. “My boy’s waiting round the corner!” she said, viciously. “Just see what he’ll do when I tell him!”

“Step inside,” repeated Harley, quietly. “Or accompany me to Kennington Lane Police Station—whichever you think would be the more amusing.”

“What d’you mean!” blustered the girl. “You can’t kid me. I haven’t done anything.”

“Then do as I tell you. You have got to answer my questions—either here or at the station. Which shall it be?”

He had realized the facts of the situation from the moment when the girl had made her sudden appearance, and he knew that his only chance of defeating his cunning opponents was to frighten her. Delicate measures would be wasted upon such a character. But even as the girl, flinging herself sullenly about, returned into the passage, he found himself admiring the resourcefulness of his unknown enemies.

A tired-looking woman carrying a child appeared from somewhere and stared apathetically at Harley.

Addressing the angry girl: “Another o’ your flames, Polly?” she inquired in a dull voice. “Has he made you change your mind already?”

The girl addressed as “Polly” dropped her grip on the floor and, banging open a door, entered a shabby little sitting room, followed by Harley. Dropping onto a ragged couch, she stared obstinately out of the dirty window.

“Excuse me, madam, for intruding,” said Harley to the woman with the baby, “but Polly has some information of use to the police. Oh, don’t be alarmed. She has committed no crime. I shall only detain her for a few minutes.”

He bowed to the tired-looking woman and closed the sitting-room door. “Now, young woman,” he said, sternly, adopting this official manner of his friend, Inspector Wessex, “I am going to give you one warning, and one only. Although I don’t think you know it, you have got mixed up with a gang of crooks. Play the game with me, and I’ll stand by you. Try any funny business and you’ll go to jail.”

The official manner had its effect. Miss Jones looked sharply across at the speaker. “I haven’t done anything,” she said, sullenly.

Paul Harley advanced and stood over her. “What about the trick with the serviettes at Sir Charles Abingdon’s?” he asked, speaking the words in slow and deliberate fashion.

The shaft went home, but the girl possessed a stock of obstinate courage. “What about it?” she inquired, but her voice had changed.

“Who made you do it?”

“What’s that to you?”

Paul Harley drew out his watch, glanced at the face, and returned the timepiece to his pocket. “I have warned you,” he said. “In exactly three minutes’ time I shall put you under arrest.”

The girl suddenly lifted her veil and, raising her face, looked up at him. At last he had broken down her obstinate resistance. Already he had noted the coarse, elemental formation of her hands, and now, the veil removed, he saw that she belonged to a type of character often found in Wales and closely duplicated in certain parts of London. There was a curious flatness of feature and prominence of upper jaw singularly reminiscent of the primitive Briton. Withal the girl was not unprepossessing in her coarse way. Utter stupidity and dogged courage are the outstanding characteristics of this type. But fear of the law is strong within them.

“Don’t arrest me,” she said. “I’ll tell you.”

“Good. In the first place, then, where were you going when I came here?”

“To meet my boy at Vauxhall Station.”

“What is his name?”

“I’m not going to tell you. What’s he done?”

“He has done murder. What is his name?”

“My God!” whispered the girl, and her face blanched swiftly. “Murder! I—I can’t tell you his name—”

“You mean you won’t?”

She did not answer.

“He is a very dark man,” continued Harley “with black eyes. He is a Hindu.”

The girl stared straight before her, dumbly.

“Answer me!” shouted Harley.

“Yes—yes! He is a foreigner.”

“A Hindu?”

“I think so.”

“He was here five minutes ago?”

“Yes.”

“Where was he going to take you?”

“I don’t know. He said he could put me in a good job